A Slow Burn
by Eydris Ivo
Summary: Cullen struggles with his lyrium withdrawal and the consequences it brings.


The moon was high, only a curved slit in the black blanket of the night sky. It bathed the sleeping village of Haven in its eerie light, causing the snow to take on a blue hue. A gentle breeze blew through, lifting the powdery snow from the ground and swirling it into playful cyclones. Most of the windows were dark, save for one. Even the tavern lights had been snuffed out for the night, leaving the village in silence. Candlelight flickered from a single window of one of the buildings. It was the only light, a beacon in the darkness.

Ice stretched its long fingers on the sill of the open window, its surface reflecting the light of the single candle that burned within. Papers were strewn everywhere, from the desk to the floor. They were even scattered on the small cot that was neatly made, fluttering softly against the wind's touch. The air of the room was alarmingly cold, causing the breath of the lone figure standing against the wall to crystallize in quick huffs. The man was shirtless and only clad in a pair of leather slacks, his torso exposed to the cold of the night.

Despite the extremely low temperature, Cullen's skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that highlighted the curves and definition of his physique. His pants sat on his hips, exposing the strong lines of his abdomen and the smooth bone-structure of his pelvis. A pair of muscular arms were raised above him, pressing into the cold stone wall. His hands were in his golden hair, palms resting on a furrowed and perspiring brow. His eyes were shut tightly and his lips were pursed in a hard line, ornamented by a scar that trailed upwards.

"Dammit," he grunted, his voice tainted with a dark frustration. He pushed his forearms into the stone until its rough surface brought blood to the surface of his skin. He opened his eyes, his brown gaze moving to a single box that was set on the desk, his lyrium.

He had promised himself that he would stop, that he would try and release himself from the entanglement the substance forced on his mind and spirit. Even now he could feel its fingers twisting into him, clawing through his body and his sanity. He needed it like he needed air, he needed it like he needed her.

_Her._

It was the vision of her bright green eyes that caused his own to snap open, and he twisted his hard body until his back was resting against the wall. The cold surface was a comfort against the fire that crawled up his skin.

She was a mage. Mages were dangerous, unpredictable, and prone to possession.

"Maker," He huffed, his hot breath moving past his lips in a long trail as he brought a hand to rub his neck.

Stopping the lyrium had made him weak, susceptible to emotions he could have easily discarded before. At this rate, he would be useless to the Inquisition. Who exactly would he become? He couldn't remember the man he was before lyrium. The past had faded, becoming nothing more than a whisper.

She was a mage.

Cullen's breathing quickened, the throes of withdrawal wracking his body. He pressed his fingers against his eyes. He couldn't deny how he responded to her, how his body responded to her. She made him feel something that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"If I take it, it will all go away!" He strode over to the desk, leaning over it and staring at the small wooden box.

If he would just take it, he could do his damn job.

Cullen reached out, his fingers trailing along the top of the box, following the grain of the wood. His gaze was a troubled ocean, churning with self-doubt and disgust. He closed his eyes, and her face was the one that surfaced in his thoughts. Deep within him, he felt the pull of the lyrium lessen, as if its voice had been muffled and it's fingers had loosened their grasp on the deepest part of him.

"No!" he shouted, slamming his hand against the box. The impact sent it flying across the room until it crashed into a wall, falling to the ground and releasing its contents on the floor. He crumpled to the ground, supporting himself with his hands. His body was slick with moisture, and his chest heaved with each painful breath.

_She was a mage. _

_A mage._


End file.
